Supernova
by Spark Writer
Summary: John is a young intern training to be a doctor at the Royal London Hospital. Sherlock is a seventeen year old drug addict. They meet, and everything changes. Teenlock.
1. Chapter 1

_(A/N): The idea for this piece sprung into my mind fully formed and I knew I had to write it down. Please leave a review if you enjoyed, so I know whether or not to continue._

**i.**

It is John's fifth night of training in The Royal London Hospital. He is working in A&E: binding cut limbs, setting casts, placing buckets between the knees of the food poisoned, and administering IV fluids to the fevered. The fluorescent glare of the overhead lights give him a migraine, a low occipital twinge that throbs like a vile metronome. He is low on sleep and high on caffeine, his feet ache from hours of unforgiving linoleum, and he is beginning to understand the chaos he will regularly face if he chooses to become a doctor.

There is the physical chaos of injury and illness and gore, but there is also the emotional chaos: distraught parents, weeping friends, spouses who sit in the waiting room praying to a god they formerly did not believe in. John wants to comfort them, all of them. He offers them little plastic cups of water and kneels beside them and tells them what he knows about the dazzling strength of the human body.

It doesn't help.

**ii.**

He's injecting a little girl with a low dosage of narcotics when a nurse bursts into the room and tells him to come quickly—a victim of drug overdose has just arrived and he ought to witness the patient to learn how to treat such symptoms.

'How old?' asks John, withdrawing the needle from Charlotte's arm.

'Seventeen.'

Only two years younger than me, he thinks. Then he is dashing, running, sprinting down the long corridor and into the main waiting area, heart galloping beneath his ribs.

A cluster of fretful nurses have gathered in the centre of the room, surrounding two men. One looks vaguely aristocratic, wearing a three-piece suit in steel grey with a waistcoat the colour of ash. His ginger hair is receding rapidly for someone with such a young face, but impeccably combed. He is supporting the other man—who isn't actually a man at all, John realises. He's a teenager, gangly and dreadfully thin with protruding cheekbones and halcyon irises encircling swollen pupils. He shifts, staggering slightly in the grasp of the other man's arms. A nurse reaches out to help support his weight and the trio begin walking down the hall.

Their progress is impeded somewhat because the boy keeps stumbling and nearly falling and at one point does fall; a blur of pallid skin and dark curls as he tumbles to the floor.

The nurse looks around and sees John watching them.

'Watson,' he barks. 'Would you mind being of some assistance?'

A frisson of adrenaline slices through John's haze of exhaustion. 'Of course, yeah. Anything.'

He hurries over. Drops to his knees. Helps the patient to his feet.

They stand there, John's fingers curled around the boy's upper arms. He's momentarily embarrassed by the fact that he is only eye-level with the boy's collarbone.

Lanky git.

The boy stares down into John's face with those cerulean eyes. His expression is distant and foggy and he is swaying on the spot, but there is an edge of something else beneath the drug-induced stupor. Something very much like disdain.

Heat floods John's cheeks and he looks away, oddly humiliated.

He feels small.

**iii.**

No sooner do they reach an unoccupied room when the boy lurches and begins to shudder violently.

The nurse guides him onto the bed fully-clothed and manueuvers him on his side.

He is clenching his teeth and his eyes are rolling beneath closed lids. His extremities jerk and twitch while a shimmering sheen of sweat breaks out on his forehead.

John can see blood flecking the boy's lips—no doubt from his tongue, and watches a sanguine trail of red trickle from his nose, shocking against the pallor of his face.

'Shit,' he mutters and no-one contradicts him.

'Are you incapable of doing anything to improve the situation?' asks the ginger-haired man, his voice tight as he watches the patient convulse.

'There's nothing to be done,' the nurse replies, lunging forward to stop the boy from rolling off the bed. 'We can only wait for it to pass. I'm sorry.'

John counts the seconds and watches as the nurse checks the boy's airways and keeps him from rolling onto his back.

It's like watching someone get electrocuted a million times over.

Horrific.

After what might have been a few minutes, an hour, or a lifetime, the boy goes still. John's air leaves his lungs in a rush of heady relief.

The nurse beckons him over and they peer in and around the boy's eyes and ears. There is no blood to suggest that the bleeding in his nose is from a cranial cavity.

'Your brother will be fine, Mr Holmes,' says the nurse. 'Dr Gordon will be here to examine him in fifteen minutes.'

He glances at John.

'If you have any further questions while you wait, Watson will be happy to answer them.'

Mr Holmes lifts his chin. 'Neither my brother nor I need guidance from a university medical student, no matter how informed you believe him to be.'

John flushes, and the nurse schools his bewildered expression before replying.

'I assure you, John Watson is one of the best interns we've ever had. He is—'

'Not a medical professional,' Mr Holmes finishes. 'Now, please tell Dr Gordon that his patient awaits.'

The nurse nods curtly and leaves, and John can hear him sigh as he strides off.

The room is suddenly unbearably quiet. John casts about for something to say. 'How long has—'

'Please don't feel the need to make small talk, John,' says Mr Holmes. 'Meaningless chatter is far more bothersome than silence.'

So John shuts up, feeling unnerved at Mr Holmes' refusal to address him by his surname. He checks the boy's blood pressure and heart-rate monitors, then smooths a damp flannel cloth over that sweat-slicked forehead, feeling a stab of sympathy when he tenses and moans in discomfort.

'His senses are quite exaggerated at the moment,' says Mr Holmes. 'His brain is expressing the lightest of touches as agonizing pain.'

'I know,' says John, slightly surprised at the man's knowledge. 'Was it cocaine?'

'Yes.'

'This—this wasn't your brother's first overdose. Was it?'

'No.' The elder Holmes sighs, sinking into the polyester plush of the corner armchair. 'His first was eight months ago. Then again three months ago.'

'I'm…' John doesn't know what to say, exactly. '...Sorry.'

'It's his own fault,' says Mr Holmes, glancing at his brother's sleeping form. He seems apathetic, but John feels there is more to the story.

'What's his name?'

'Sherlock.'

John smiles. 'He'll pull through, you know,' he says, inserting an IV tip into the vein shot underside of Sherlock's arm.

He sees a constellation of scarlet dots in the crook Sherlock's elbow. Christ. John swallows hard and finishes what he's doing.

He is treating a seventeen-year-old drug addict. What has become of the world?

**iv.**

John has an organic biochemistry exam the following morning, the results of which will determine half his grade. He knows this. He's been studying for weeks.

And still he asks Dr Gordon if he can stay at the hospital overnight. With a patient named Sherlock Holmes, to be exact.

Dr Gordon grants him permission.

John makes himself a strong cup of Earl Grey and returns to room 221B.

It's going to be a long night.

**v.**

The indignant blare of a cab horn cuts through the stillness and John opens his eyes, straining to see in the heavy darkness. He fumbles in his jacket pocket for his mobile and turns it on, cupping his hand around it to keep the glare of the screen from disturbing Sherlock.

It's 3:11 in the morning.

John returns his phone to his pocket, wincing when it makes a loud, electronic chirp. He glances in the direction of the bed, just barely able to make out Sherlock's silhouette. He is curled in a tight little ball, blankets drawn to his chin. He doesn't seem to have woken. His brother, John notices, is absent; armchair sitting empty.

He frowns and shifts in his chair, seeking a more comfortable position. His physical therapist would have an apoplectic fit if she knew he was spending the night sitting on unforgiving wood.

Just as he is drifting out of consciousness, there's a groan from Sherlock's direction.

John is instantly awake. He gets to his feet, pulse thudding in his throat, and shuffles to Sherlock's side.

'Mycroft?' Sherlock's voice is low and rough, vibrating behind John's rib cage like a small earthquake.

John guessed this must be his brother.

'Mycroft's stepped out for a minute, Sherlock. This is John. John Watson. I've been monitoring your condition all night.'

'My—condition?' Sherlock rolls onto his other side, hissing in pain.

'You've had an overdose,' John murmurs, blinking in the darkness. 'You're in The Royal London Hospital.'

'How the hell did I get here?'

'Your brother found you, I think.'

'Fucking Mycroft.'

'Hey, I'm sure he was only trying to help.'

'Wrong. My brother is an interfering bastard.'

John falls silent. He'd thought Mycroft was acerbic, but now he seems positively cuddly compared to his younger brother.

'Why's it all dark?' Sherlock asks, after a moment.

'It's three in the morning. Would you like me to turn on a light?'

'No. It'll make me vomit.'

'Perfectly understandable.'

John drags his chair over to Sherlock's bed and sits, rubbing a hand over his aching temples. 'Can I get you anything?'

'A new skull. Mine feels as if a high-yield atomic bomb has just been detonated inside it.'

John gives a rueful laugh. 'I'm afraid you'll just have to wait for the headache to pass.'

'Headache?' Sherlock sounds disgusted. 'Comparing this to a headache is like comparing a gnat to a hurricane.'

'I'm sorry,' says John. 'If I knew a way to alleviate the pain, I would.'

Sherlock makes a derisive sound in his throat. 'That's not what people usually say.'

'What do they usually say?'

'Piss off.' Sherlock shifts, rustling his blankets. 'They think I deserve it.'

A blend of sympathy and something angrier twists in John's gut. 'I don't.'

There's a pause.

'John?'

'Yes?'

'You're not a doctor, are you.'

'No, I'm a uni student. Med school. I have to get an internship as part of my training.'

'So you're studying to become one.'

'Well, yes.'

'Good.'

John chuckles. 'I'm glad I've got your approval.'

Sherlock begins to laugh but the sound dies in his throat in favour of a tired groan. "I meant you'd be good be at it.'

John feels oddly pleased. 'Thank you.'

Sherlock doesn't reply.

**vi.**

Daylight is streaming through the window when John wakes next, warming his aching back. He opens his eyes, lashes rasping against cotton sheets. He is disoriented, then mortified, as he realises where he's fallen asleep. He is sitting in his chair, which is still at Sherlock's bedside, but his torso is sprawled on the mattress and his face is in embarrassingly close proximity to Sherlock's groin.

Oh, God.

John eases cautiously back, and sits upright in his chair. A quick look at his mobile tells him it's 7:30. His exam is in an half an hour. Fuck.

There is a flash of movement to his right, and he glances over. Mycroft is standing in the doorway, the handle of an umbrella curved around his forearm. His suit is faintly rumpled but he looks frighteningly composed for someone who just spent a night in A&E.

John's fairly certain he looks like shit. He runs a hand self-consciously through his hair, and clears his throat.

'Morning, Mr Holmes.'

'Likewise,' says Mycroft, fixing John with an odd, inscrutable stare. 'I trust you slept well?'

'Er…' John doesn't know how to respond. 'Well enough. I'm just glad I was able to keep an eye on Sherlock.'

'Why?' asks Mycroft, and there is a bite to his voice.

John frowns. 'I'm training to be a doctor. This is what I want to do with my life. Treat people. Take care of them.'

'You're missing the question, John.' Mycroft steps over the threshold. 'You are a university student with an abundance of exams—one of which is this morning—and I can tell by looking at you that you don't make a habit of staying overnight to nurse patients you've just met and likely will never encounter again. But you stayed last night. You stayed for my brother. Why?'

How can Mycroft possibly know about that exam? Is he some sort of clairvoyant? Bemused, John feels a sudden need to defend himself. 'He's young, I'm young. I related to him. Felt somewhat responsible for his well-being, I suppose.'

'I'll accept that,' says Mycroft. 'But there is a boundary between healer and patient. Mind it.'

John stops, halfway into his jacket. 'Sorry?'

His heart begins to pound.

Mycroft doesn't answer, just smiles an unpleasant smile and takes his seat in the corner.

'Thank you for your assistance, Mr Watson. I'm sure you'll make a very fine doctor.'

John nods, shaking off the sensation of unease. He looks over Sherlock, feeling an odd pang at the sight those riotous curls spilling over his forehead as he rests.

For a reckless few seconds, John considers asking Mycroft for Sherlock's number. But it's a ridiculous idea and he knows it.

So he leaves the room, hurrying to the main office where he signs himself out and slings his name tag on a hook.

When he walks outside, it's sunny.

Somehow that feels all wrong.

**vii.**

'Holy shit.' Greg takes a sip of his drink, face lit with amusement. "You're telling me she puked on your _head_?'

'Yeah,' says John. 'Right when I was bending over to get a better look at the gash on her ankle. She's the not the first person with hemophobia I've encountered.'

Greg dissolves into vigorous guffaws and John rolls his eyes. 'Try not to act like a hyena, Greg. It was fucking disgusting.'

'Yeah? Get used to it, mate. That's how it is in the medical profession.'

John decides to change the subject. 'So,' he says, swirling his beer. 'You getting anywhere with Molly?'

'Fuck no.' Greg grimaces, making eye contact with a green-eyed young woman strolling past the bar.

'Out of your league,' mutters John.

Greg flips him off. 'Anyway,' he continues, 'Molly's already going out with another bloke. Jim something or other.'

'Too bad. I thought you two would have worked rather well.'

Looking depressed, Greg launches into a discussion of whether or not he should grow a beard, something he's been considering for quite some time, and John's focus begins to drift.

His eyes wander to the flat-screen TV on the wall, the patina of dried alcohol on the floor, smitten couples kissing messily in corners.

And then his heart stops.

Because Sherlock Holmes is sitting at the farthest table, all dark curls and grey eyes and pale skin. It makes John light-headed.

He swallows and sets his pint down with clenched fingers.

'You alright, mate?'

Greg is staring at John, a pleat of concern between his brows.

"Yeah,' says John, breathless. 'I've just seen someone.'

He takes another look and that's when his heart sinks to his toes, because that isn't Sherlock after all, it's someone else, someone with a rounder nose and higher forehead and larger jaw.

John swears to himself, viciously embarrassed.

It's pathetic how wrapped up he's become in Sherlock Holmes.

He needs to pull himself together. Now.

**viii.**

There is a certain level of anonymity on the London tube.

John likes it. He isn't a flashy, showy person. He likes a bit of privacy, a bit of space to himself. Despite the effortless warmth that allows him to make friends so easily, constant socializing exhausts him.

When he gets on the tube, he likes to savour the brief respite.

So it comes as quite a surprise, when, halfway between stops, there is a rumbling baritone in his ear.

'Hello, John.'


	2. Chapter 2

They're at a café together.

John has a mug of steaming espresso between his palms. Sherlock is sitting opposite him, wearing a charcoal woolen Belstaff with the collar turned up and brushing against his cheekbones.

John feels pleasantly dazed. Half an hour ago he was alone on the tube, his only thoughts of catching up on his reading for midterms. Now he's with Sherlock, pinned in the glow of that perspicacious stare.

He leans forward, bridging the gap between them. 'So, how did you recognise me?'

Sherlock shrugs offhandedly and mutters something about the distinctive pattern of hair growth on the back of John's scalp.

'Bullshit,' John says good-naturedly. 'The last and only time you've ever seen me you were high as a kite. We spoke later but that was in total darkness. I could have been naked for all you know.'

Sherlock looks affronted.

'Come on, just tell me how you knew it was me.'

'If you really want to know, I recognised your scent.' Sherlock looks down at his untouched pasty, blushing a dull rose.

John gives a snort of disbelief. 'You're taking the piss.'

'I am not. It's absolutely true.'

'How did you—?'

Sherlock heaves a sigh. 'When I woke up in the hospital, you'd already gone.' Was it John's imagination, or was there a bite of resentment in Sherlock's voice? 'But the sheets near my left hip smelled faintly of Earl Grey and antiseptic. I knew it was you.'

'So you were honestly able to pick that out on the tube among all those people?' John's face warms. Jesus.

'I have a remarkably sensitive olfactory system,' says Sherlock.

'Apparently.'

'I would have known it was you, anyway. You radiated medical efficiency from practically every pore.'

He gives John a strange look, something not far from a smile.

John finishes his coffee. 'While you were asleep, Sherlock, your brother reminded me of the line between doctor and patient. He told me to mind it.'

'Irrelevant.'

'I just thought you should know. In case he finds out we've been corresponding.'

'No, John. It's literally irrelevent.'

'What? Why?'

'You're not actually a doctor.'

John folds his arms over his chest, shooting Sherlock a look of mild resentment. 'Fuck off.'

'John, it isn't necessary to resort to such vulgarity. You—'

John reaches out, brushing his fingers lightly against the strip of milky skin at Sherlock's wrist. 'I'm not actually angry.' He raises an eyebrow. 'And in case you've forgotten, you ghastly hypocrite, you were swearing like a sailor last time we spoke.'

'I'd just overdosed on cocaine!'

John winces as a few people turn to stare. 'Fair point.'

Sherlock eyes the dregs in John's cup. 'Finished?'

'Yeah, I suppose. Why?'

'There's something I want you to see.'

**x.**

Sherlock is a whirl of dark wool and burning eyes.

He dashes all over London, plowing his way through the churning pedestrian traffic as John trots in his wake. They go places John has never been before—rooftops and back alleys and the heavily graffitied undersides of bridges. John is finally beginning to taste London's rough edges, breathe in its myriad of scents, listen to its vibrant, orchestral roar.

It's quite something.

As they scale a fire escape, Sherlock tells John he wants to be a consulting detective. The only one in the world.

'I'll help the police when they're out of their depth, which is always,' he says, and John laughs.

For four minutes and thirteen seconds they watch a rather blazing sunset, then Sherlock gets antsy and launches into a monologue about the properties of car-exhaust.

'Nitrogen, oxygen, carbon dioxide, sulphur, smaller quantities of hydrocarbons, and a modicum of ozone…'

This reminds him of something else, and he jumps to his feet, beckoning John after him. Darkness falls and London becomes incandescent with the artificial glow of street lamps. It's already 19:00 and John should be getting back to his dormitory, but he really couldn't care less.

So he quickens his pace and dives after Sherlock, losing himself to the metropolian blur.

He's never felt more alive.

**xi.**

It all ends on a bridge over the Thames. John watches the moon as it rises, painting a silver streak up the river and pooling in the tarns of Sherlock's irises.

Minutes pass.

He looks over, cocking his head when he sees Sherlock's inimitable features drawn in a frown.

'You alright?'

Sherlock blinks, his expression returning to its practiced indifference. 'Of course. Why?'

John shrugs. He remembers the collection of needle pricks on Sherlock's arm and clears his throat. He hasn't known Sherlock long, and he doesn't want to jeoparadize their relationship by overstepping unseen boundaries, but…

'What?' asks Sherlock.

'I wasn't saying anything.'

'You were thinking.'

John raises his eyebrows. 'So you can read minds as well?'

'I wouldn't call it that. You're easy to read.'

A blend of annoyance and affection ignites in John's chest. 'Fine,' he says, squaring his shoulders. 'I was just thinking about your problem.'

'Addiction,' Sherlock corrects.

'Right. And, well, I'm not going to lecture you on why you shouldn't take drugs. Because you're smart and I think you already know why. But if there's something going on that's making you feel the need to use them, just remember—'

'It's nothing like that,' Sherlock says dully. 'You're just like everyone else. You all think my addiction's to do with some deep-seated emotional suffering—a broken family, perhaps. It's not. It's just an ugly habit I acquired at a young age. Plain and simple.'

'Okay,' John concedes after a moment. 'Regardless, I just want you to know that I'm here if you ever need me.'

'Why on earth would I need you?'

The words hang in the air, sharp and glacial.

John looks up, forcing himself to meet that caustic gaze. 'Look, I don't give a shit about your ego, Sherlock. You're a seventeen-year-old with a cocaine problem and things could end very badly if you don't pull yourself together. You need help and I want to help you. But I won't be treated this way. You can act like an arse around as many people as you like, but you won't act like one around me. Understood?'

The bloody tang of his heartbeat crashes against his ribs.

Sherlock stares at him, looking equal parts astonished and enraged.

Right.

John steps back, putting a bit of space between them. A group of teenagers stumble past, laughing raucously over some lewd joke.

He's actually considering backpedaling, when Sherlock lays a hand on his shoulder and says 'I'm sorry,' in a very small voice.

John wants to relish having the upper-hand, but Sherlock looks so astoundingly remorseful that he gives up the act after two heartbeats.

'It's alright.'

'It isn't. I was rude.'

'Well, now you've apologised, so stop looking so goddamn miserable.' John gives Sherlock a lop-sided smile.

Sherlock returns it in his crooked way, and John tells him he's an idiot.

'So are you,' Sherlock retorts. 'A massive one.'

'Does that bother you?'

Sherlock looks as though he's going to say yes, but instead he frowns and meets John's gaze, eyes bright and bewildered.

"No, actually. It's…fine.'

'Good,' murmurs John.

They don't say anything after that.

**xii.**

From that point on, John and Sherlock meet every Thursday afternoon.

They explore London. They take the tube and disembark at random stops, taking pleasure in getting lost. They traipse through museum galleries. They discuss the possibility of life on other planets. They eat. They meander through dusty bookshops. They look through rubbish bins for old beakers and Erlenmeyer flasks—_the experiments, John! _They sit in the park. Sherlock watches passers-by and deduces obscure details of their personal life from a single glance. John listens.

Sometimes they talk. Mostly they don't.

**xiii.**

The phalanges are connected to the metacarpals, the metacarpals are connected to the ulna, the ulna is connected to the humerus…

And John's heart is connected to a seventeen-year-old junkie with ridiculously sharp cheekbones in a way that defies all logic.

**xiv.**

After three months, John knows several things:

Sherlock plays the violin. He hasn't done so for John, not yet, but there have been murmured promises.

He is very good at disguising himself. John has been accosted by a silver-haired old woman, a burly construction worker, and a posh stylist, all of whom turned out to be Sherlock.

He has a mole on the right side of his neck, about an inch below his jaw. He calls it a blemish. John calls it interesting.

He is helplessly attracted to chemical explosions. It's quite a problem, actually, but John feels there are worse vices. Anything to distract Sherlock from the beguiling glint of a needle.

His eyes change colour. They can shift from silver to sapphire to cornflower to ash within the course of an hour. Sometimes, when he is happy, they are rainwater and dragonflies wings. Radiant.

**xiv.**

They're eating dinner at a restaurant called Angelo's when someone at a nearby table chokes. John recognises the signs immediately and is already rising from his chair before the person's date can do more than gawp helplessly.

He's only nineteen, but he's been trained for this. It's what he does. He saves lives.

John is beside the man in a flash. He wraps his arms around him from behind, clasping his hands and thrusting them back and up against the man's shuddering diaphragm.

The Heimlich manueuver should expel the food lodged in the victim's throat, but it doesn't.

A knife-edge of panic shoots down John's spine. People begin reaching for their mobiles. Someone calls 999.

The man's eyes roll back into his head and he slumps forward. John presses two fingers to his pulse-point and the woman sitting opposite clamps a hand over her mouth.

'Oh my god, is he going to die?'

'His pulse is weak and he isn't breathing,' says John. 'I'm going to start rescue breathing.'

'Do you even know how—'

'He's a medical student,' Sherlock barks, suddenly at John's side. 'He knows what he's doing.'

John lifts the man from his slumped position and pinches his nose shut, tilting his jaw upwards as he opens his mouth and fits their lips together in a tight seal.

John tastes rosemary and expensive wine. He takes deep breath through his nose and exhales through his mouth; the man's chest rises sharply.

And doesn't rise again.

Someone behind them swears loudly. John counts to three, then blows into the man's mouth again.

Nothing.

'Stay with me, mate,' John gasps, peeling back the man's eyelids to peer at his retinas. The capillaries have burst and the whites of his eyes are a horrible, sickly carmine.

'Paramedics are coming,' another woman cries, hovering beside the table with widened eyes.

John goes in for a third try, breathing his oxygen down the man's throat with all the force he can muster. This time the man twitches, and begins to cough and splutter and wheeze, ejecting an innocuous looking morsel of bread onto the tablecloth.

'Roger, oh my god, are you alright? How do you feel? Can you breathe?' His date is practically draped across the table, taking his face in her hands and peering into his eyes. 'The paramedics are here. Look!'

An ambulance is waiting outside, lights flashing and sirens howling. John straightens and steps back, getting elbowed several times as diners jostle him out of the way for a good look at the brave survivor.

He bumps into someone, hard, and stiffens, waiting for the rebuke. But when he turns to apologise, he finds Sherlock staring down at him.

He looks strangely flushed.

'That was very…' Sherlock seems to be choosing his words carefully. 'Resourceful.'

'That all you can come up with?' John pushes past and plucks his jacket from their table. His legs are trembling.

'No, you were quick-witted and composed and pretty damn brave.' Sherlock fixes John with his mercurial gaze, and there is an unusal undercurrent of warmth that makes John's mouth go dry.

'Thank you.'

Sherlock nods and busies himself with his gloves.

'How much do I owe?" John asks, raising his voice to be heard over the din. He gestures at the remnants of his meal.

Sherlock waves a hand. 'It's on the house, John. Angelo insists.'

'Fucking hell.'

Sherlock laughs, helping John into his coat. 'You've just saved the life of one of his best customers. He'll be infinitely grateful.'

'I can't accept this, Sherlock. I don't help people for the pro bono; I help them because it's right.'

'I know,' says Sherlock, holding the door in a bizarre fit of chivalry. 'That is precisely why you deserve it.'

**xv.**

Sherlock is asexual.

There's no other explanation for his total disinterest in either gender.

John knows this shouldn't bother him, but it does.

He isn't sure why.

**xvi.**

John should never have given Sherlock his number. Now, he receives texts from the beautiful maniac at all hours of the day and night.

_Mycroft is being a filthy know-it-all. – SH_

_What would happen if a person aspirated a small amount of furniture polish each day for twenty years? – SH_

_Mother and Father are arguing for the seventeenth time in two days. – SH_

_Tedious. - SH_

_Person is in a four-sided room with no doors, windows, or mirrors. How will they escape? – SH_

_I despise my brother's visits home. – SH_

_Pissing Mycroft. - SH_

_Bored. – SH_

_Stop ignoring me. I know you can hear your text alert. – SH_

_Can't sleep. – SH_

_If I told you I'd just slashed myself on a kitchen knife, would you reply? – SH_

_John. – SH_

_Please. – SH_

**xviii.**

Sherlock doesn't show up one Thursday.

John goes to their usual meeting place in Regent's Park and sits on a bench, waiting until long after 16:00 has come and gone. Anxiety roils in his gut and he texts Sherlock seven times, asking where he is.

No reply.

Goddamn it, Sherlock.

Eventually, John abandons the park and begins walking toward the nearest tube station, jangling his room keys uneasily in his pocket.

Something isn't right.

**xix.**

He's reading his psychology textbook that night when he gets a text from a Sherlock's number.

_Greetings, John. Regrettably, my brother is using again. He is receiving medical assistance, but his phone has now been confiscated, as have his substances. I am aware that you have been meeting regularly for the past several months and am asking you to discontinue this tradition, as Sherlock will be moving into a rehabilitation center for an indefinite period. T__hank you. – MH_

'Fuck,' John whispers.

It may as well be the end of the world.

**xx.**

The next evening, John takes the tube to The Royal London Hospital. He's exhausted and drained and worried, utterly focused on Sherlock, but he slips into his scrubs and forces an expression of doctorly vigilance.

He nearly collides with Dr Gordon on his way to fetch a clean hypodermic needle.

'Evening, Watson.'

'Evening, sir.'

Dr Gordon gives him a weary smile and walks on, lab coat flapping theatrically.

'Wait,' calls John. 'Sir—were you working last night?'

'Yes, unfortunately. Seven different cases of Viagra abuse. Lord.'

John grimaces. 'I was only wondering if you treated someone named Sherlock Holmes. For drug use.'

'Was he that lad you stayed overnight to keep an eye on?'

Briefly surprised, John nods. 'Yes, actually. That's the one.'

Dr Gordon frowns. 'He was in last night but not because of anything drug related. Sheryl tested him. Clean as a whistle.'

John's vision wobbles slightly. 'What was he in for?'

Dr Gordon looks bewildered. 'Didn't you know? Poor fellow almost drowned.'

'No,' says John and his hands begin to shake. 'I didn't.'

...

...

_(A/N): Hello lovelies! Please leave a review if at all possible. I'm trying to get more input on this fic. Thank you... And I hope you all had a fantastic Valentine's Day. I spent the majority of mine shoveling waist high snows from my driveway. ;-)_


	3. Chapter 3

**xxi.**

John knows it's futile, but he texts Sherlock all night, keeping himself awake with adrenaline and more cups of tea than anyone should consume in a lifetime.

There is a reason Mycroft lied. Betrayed as he feels, John knows there must be more to the story. It gives him a squirming, scraping sensation in his gut.

His roommate, a sullen young man with a chestnut ponytail, lets himself in at half two in the morning.

'The fuck are you looking at?' he asks, stumbling to his bed and collapsing on it fully clothed.

'Nothing,' says John, swallowing the bitter dregs of his tea. He averts his gaze, hoping Ernie won't notice the puffy redness around his eyes.

'Have you been crying?'

'No,' John replies. He straightens his shoulders.

'Well, you look like shit.' Ernie peels off his shoes and kicks them to the floor. 'Go to sleep or stop staring. It's weird as hell.'

'You're drunk, Ernie.'

'And you're acting like a sodding pervert.'

John rolls his eyes.

He takes a quavering breath and checks his mobile for the millionth time. Nothing. The sheer, unrelenting panic is brutal. It resonates in every organ, every bone, every cell of his trembling body, beating like a tell-tale heart: Sherlock, Sherlock, _Sherlock_.

'You are crying.' Ernie rolls onto his side and studies John with unfocused brown eyes. 'What's going on?'

'It's one of my mates. There's been an emergency.'

'Which one?'

'Does it matter?'

Ernie stares at John for a moment, eyes darting from his damp lashes to his mobile to the quivering line of his mouth. 'It's that Sherlock lad, isn't it?'

John clenches his jaw, and Ernie grunts with laughter. 'I knew it. He sick?'

'No.'

'Injured?'

'In a manner of speaking. He's gotten medical treatment, but—'

'Why the hell are you so worried then?'

'You wouldn't understand.'

Ernie heaves himself into a sitting position, a menacing look of triumph in his eyes. 'You're head over heels in love with him, that's why. You're boyfriend's gone and got himself hurt and it's made you a bloody wreck. I'm not surprised. I always knew you were gay. Can't hold a girlfriend for more than three weeks, can you, Watson? Bet you're happy now that you're fucking Sherloc—'

'Shut up,' says John. He's never been so livid in his life. 'One more word and you won't live to see the light of day.'

Ernie doesn't say anything, just bares his teeth in that sick smile.

'You're disgusting.' John snatches his jacket from floor and wrenches it on over his jumper. 'Deal with your own damn hangover. I'm leaving.'

He doesn't bother to slam the door on his way out.

**xxii.**

_John. – SH_

The text comes in the early hours of the morning, when John is sitting in an all-night café with lukewarm coffee and an untouched biscuit. He nearly drops his mobile.

His thumbs skitter across the screen as he types a hasty reply.

_What's happened? Where are you? Are you alright? – JW_

_Regent's Park. Two hours. – SH_

An almost orgasmic swell of relief surges through him and he drops his forehead to the grease-slicked tabletop, thanking the universe for being good to him this time.

**xxiii.**

When John walks into the park, he sees Sherlock perched on a bench, _their_ bench, and his heart leaps into his throat. For over forty-eight hours the world has been dowsed in lifeless greyscale. Now, at the sight of pale angles and a ridiculous coat, colour begins to reassert itself in London's variegated landscape.

'Sherlock,' John says, gaining momentum as he ghosts across gravel and dirt. 'God, are you okay?'

Sherlock rises to his feet, sunlight illuminating the violet smudges beneath his eyes. 'A bit concussed, but otherwise satisfactory.'

'What happened? Mycroft sent me a text from your number saying that you—'

'Yes,' Sherlock cuts him off. 'I saw.'

'But when I went to work at the hospital,' John continues, 'I find out that you hadn't been in A&E for drugs but because you'd almost drowned.' He stops when there's barely a foot of space between them. 'What the hell, Sherlock? What happened?'

'I…' Sherlock falls silent.

'Please don't tell me you were collecting samples of riverwater and fell into the Thames.' John's remark doesn't illicit a smile.

'It wasn't anything like that.'

There's an odd, warning edge to Sherlock's tone. It makes John's esophagus constrict.

'Then please, tell me.'

Sherlock is quiet for a moment. 'Bathtub,' he says, eventually. As though it makes all the sense in the world.

'You nearly drowned—in a bathtub?'

'Yes.'

'Your bathtub?'

Sherlock stares at a point somewhere above John's head. 'Obviously.'

It should be funny. It isn't.

'I wasn't expecting that.'

'Of course not. I'm sure you were expecting something more dramatic. Something more theatrical, more impressive, more memorable. Yes,' says Sherlock, nodding. 'People always do.'

'What do you mean?' John's skull is beginning to buzz with a vertiginous migraine. 'It was an accident, you don't have to worry about creativity points—'

Sherlock cuts him off. 'The doctors said I must have slipped while bathing.'

'And struck your head against the tub's enamel?'

'One blow to the skull and I lost consciousness.'

'Christ,' says John. 'Who found you?'

A wrinkle appears between Sherlock's brows; a horizontal crease just above the bridge of his nose. 'Mycroft. I don't remember much.'

'Thank god for that.' John looks into those kaleidoscope eyes and swallows hard, his Adam's apple bobbing. 'I just don't understand…he tried to keep me from contacting you, and I was worried, Sherlock. I was so fucking worried. Why did Mycroft lie about what really happened?'

'Because the doctors were wrong.'

'What?'

'An accident… That was their final diagnosis.'

John's pulse jumps into a faster, startled rhythm. 'You're telling me it wasn't?'

Silence.

Sherlock lowers himself to the bench without meeting John's eyes and blinks twice, his gaze downcast.

'Sherlock…'

John isn't stupid. He knows about suicide. He's treated survivors on more than one occasion. He's even considered it himself—several years earlier, when a petty argument between himself and Harry led his sister to drink herself just this side of lethal oblivion.

'Sherlock,' he repeats, and the moniker comes out like a wretched whimper. 'Why?'

'There are so many reasons,' Sherlock murmurs. 'I don't care to explain them.'

A tremor runs through John's body, because the Sherlock he knows would have made that sentence sound arrogant and cold, not wrecked and weary as it is now.

_You fucking idiot,_ he thinks. _There's not one reason, not one, I would accept._

'Mycroft knew it was deliberate,' Sherlock continues. His fingers tangle in his lap; long, pallid digits that twist and tremble like the snapped strings of a violin.

'And the doctors didn't?'

'It was the position he found me in. It gave away my intentions. Childish mistake,' he adds, and John wants to strangle him. 'I was on my back, knees drawn to my chest as they usually are when I bathe.'

'Yes,' says John, tears stinging his retinas. 'Because you're an outrageously tall bastard who can't stretch out in small places.'

Sherlock looks up. His cupid's bow is set in a rigid line. 'Well, it's not a position I would have fallen into arbitrarily. I assume Mycroft noticed immediately.'

'So you, what…bashed your head against the bottom of the tub until you blacked out?' John turns away, quietly distraught. He can't fathom the thoughts that must have been ripping through Sherlock's head as he sought his own demise. He should have been there, holding Sherlock to earth, refusing to let him spin out into this black hole alone.

'My goddamn lungs,' Sherlock mutters. 'They wouldn't stop propelling me to the surface for oxygen. I had to do something. A blunt trauma to the skull seemed like the best way to extinguish my biological drive to live.'

John can't speak. There is a weight on his chest, pressing hard enough to create fissures in his messily beating heart. He thinks of the last time he saw Sherlock, when he devoured a pound of technicolour wine gums and made himself ill…thinks of Sherlock leading him onto the tube and crowding him close…thinks of that lush baritone reciting timeworn fairy tales to distract him from his roiling stomach.

What if that had been the last time? What if?

'So, John, the simple answer to a difficult question: Mycroft lied because he knew it wasn't a mistake. I'd tried to kill myself, and he wanted to shield me from judgement in his misguided way. But all he did was alienate the one person I—'

Sherlock breaks off and John is haunted by the unfinished sentence.

He turns back, looking Sherlock dead in the eye. 'Does your brother know where you are right now?'

'No.'

'Of course he doesn't. You never play by the rules.'

'I did what had to be done.' Sherlock's face drops into his trembling hands. 'I had to speak to you.'

John stares down at Sherlock's crumpled form. He inhales a shuddering lungful of air while a firestorm of joy, fury, and relief chars his gut. A tear collects at the tip of his nose before falling to earth, an embarrassingly obvious manifestation of his feelings. 'Sherlock, you are a—'

'I know—'

'…complete, raging idiot and—'

'I didn't—'

'…if you ever do this again, so help me God, I will bring you back from the dead so I can kill you myself and—'

'John—'

'…I'm so, so sorry.'

**xxiv.**

Sherlock isn't okay.

John has to keep reminding himself of this. There is still a violent squall of Not Good churning in the depths of that neon mind, and it will rage for a while. But this can be difficult to remember, especially when Sherlock is lustfully dissecting a rabbit or deducing Mycroft's caloric intake of the past ten hours or snickering at his own witticisms until John calls him a conceited arsehole. But the puncture wounds on his arms are fading, he's gained half a stone thanks to John's doctorly inveigling, and his eyes are no longer so dull.

So at times it does seem like he is just fine; back to his ingenuously haughty self and ready to spit blood at the universe.

Then something will trigger him and he'll fall into an extravagantly morose fit of silence, wrapping himself in the Belstaff and refusing to speak to anyone. Or he'll turn icy with contempt, bombarding John with sharp insults and scornful remarks as though hell bent on testing the very limits of their relationship. Or, worst of all, he'll become meek.

Once upon a time, John would have given anything for a more submissive version of his friend, but now he realises how wrong that is. Witnessing Sherlock Holmes in such a wretched, abject state feels almost dishonorable, and John carries the memory like a shameful secret.

Still, none of this dissuades him. He stays with Sherlock through all of it, whether in face-to-face meetings, hasty text messages, or half-coherent conversations muttered over the phone. He allows himself to be used and needed and pushed away as Sherlock sees fit, and despite the moment's of anger or resentment, his iron loyalty always wins out in the end.

He will be there for Sherlock. Always.

**xxvi.**

John is sitting in his dorm room at Uni, contemplating a hefty stack of unfinished papers. It's unseasonably warm for April, so he's only wearing jeans and his white cotton vest, enjoying a light breeze coming from the open window. He picks up his pen and runs the cap along his lower lip. Adrenaline is starting to invade his bloodstream as he considers the ratio of assignments to the time he has to do them in.

Bugger.

John lifts his health policy textbook from the floor and opens it to page three-hundred and two. He's reading an especially dry passage about the finer aspects of globalization when his door flies open and crashes against the opposite wall.

'Christ, Ernie, you could have put a hole through the bloody plaster.' John looks irritably up from his book and falls silent with shock.

Sherlock is standing in the doorway, all sharp lines and rich pigment; emerald shirt collar capturing his collarbones in a salient vee, chestnut curls unusually well-ordered, legs clad in a pair of endless dark jeans that should damn well be illegal.

'Hello,' Sherlock rumbles, crossing the threshold and closing the door behind him.

John is astonished. 'How the ruddy hell did you find me?'

'Asked around a bit. I know this is where you go to school. It took no time at all to identify your friends, whereupon they gave me your dormitory and room number. Simple.'

'That's questionable behaviour, Sherlock. Some might even say it verges on stalking.'

'Rubbish.' Sherlock sits on the edge Ernie's bed and that's when John sees that he has something with him.

His heart lifts as he asks, 'Is that a violin case?'

'Yes.'

John closes his textbook and shifts in his seat, suddenly remembering how little clothing he has on his top half. 'Why have you brought it? Why now?'

'I should think that's rather obvious,' Sherlock says, unzipping the case and revealing a cherry-stained Stradivarius violin. 'It's your birthday.'

This takes John a moment to absorb. He mentioned his birth date more than a month ago, when they were knee-deep in a skip looking for cast-off science equipment. Sherlock had been paying little mind to John's small-talk—or so he'd thought.

'I thought you deleted that,' he says, smiling at Sherlock's look of indignation. 'You only keep things that are important.'

'This is important,' Sherlock murmurs, and he says it like he's telling John the distance from the earth to the moon. Like it's fact. 'I wrote you a song,' he adds, 'And I've come to play it. It's not very good but it's the best I could do under short notice.'

He plucks a scroll of paper from his violin case and unfurls it, handing it to John.

It's marked with hastily penciled staffs and music notes that remind John of his primary school days of clarinet lessons, but there is no title above the chaos of sixteenth notes. All Sherlock has written in the top right corner is "John."

'Keep it,' he says, gripping the neck of his violin as he tunes it with deft fingers.

'I will,' says John. 'Thank you.'

Then Sherlock rises to his feet and places his bow gently against the strings. John sits back, a frisson of anticipation dancing down his spine. All this time he has waited to hear Sherlock play and now, finally…

But, as the first notes meet his ears, John realises that playing is such an insufficient word for what Sherlock is doing now.

This is an explosive, emotive symphony of sound. It is so unlike Sherlock that it takes John's breath away, leaving him to gasp shallowly as crisp triplets and soaring harmonies burn up the air around them. The song is an improbable supernova, a stellar explosion, and Sherlock is the nebula star at the centre of it, so vulnerable, so close to collapse, but staggeringly bright. With every note he is coming to life and so too is John, both of them entangled in the music; happily lost.

It's a love song. A requiem. To John, to life, to the world Sherlock claims to so abhor.

And when it comes to an end, they are both breathing hard and John's heart is in danger of beating right out of his chest.

He stares at Sherlock's knees, hands trembling. 'That was…'

Like seeing universes come to life…having every atom in his body replaced by super-heated love…watching a light so brilliant his eyes will sting for years after…

How the hell he is supposed to convey all that is utterly beyond him.

John pushes himself out of his chair, scalp prickling with the last unequivocal notes of the song and crosses the room so that the only thing separating him from Sherlock is a few meager inches. Sherlock looks up, meeting his eyes, and when he does—oh, _God_. The connection sears through John all the way down to his bare toes and every nerve shivers to life, incandescent with sensation. Flecks of gold and green undulate in Sherlock's ever-changing irises and his breath hitches in his throat.

'John…?'

A flash of outrageous courage is all it takes to propel him forward, clutching at Sherlock's lapels to tug his head down into range.

Sherlock's lips are warm and slightly chapped against John's. For a fleeting few seconds he seems shocked into submission. John swipes his tongue tentatively along Sherlock's lower lip, tasting cigarette smoke and toothpaste. Then Sherlock stiffens, bracing his palms against John's chest, and draws back, looking for all the world as though he has just been slapped.

His eyes are dark and his pulse is jumping in the hollow beneath his jaw.

John's heart stutters and plunges to his toes. He fumbles for an apology. 'I'm—'

'Misreading the obvious as usual,' breathes Sherlock, and closes the distance.

The warm splay of his fingers on the back of John's neck obliterates all further thought. He slides his tongue along the pliant seam of John's lips and into his mouth, crowding him shamelessly up against the wall. It's a shocking, electrifying onslaught. John is caressing Sherlock's tongue with his own, nipping at those full lips and reveling in the flavour of their mingling saliva. Sherlock's blood is pumping through his veins so close by that John can taste the fluttering rhythm of it pulsing in his own mouth.

This is what it feels like to burn.

Each kiss passing between them is molten steel, incendiary and blisteringly bright, and they are both turning to ash.

Eventually, the need for oxygen brings them back to Earth and they separate, lips parted around short, shallow gasps. John eases his eyes open. Sherlock is a bare canvas before him; monotone but for the blue burn of his irises and flush of blood at his cheekbones. A rash of goosebumps have appeared on his neck and he's staring down at John with tender, disarming warmth.

Gone is the apathy John has grown so accustomed to.

It's like witnessing a cosmic shift.

'John,' Sherlock whispers, his breath creating sudden humidity between them. '_John_.'

John swallows. His synapses are firing at abysmal speeds and it takes a phenomenal effort to arrange his words in the proper order. Grammar and syntax seem to have forgotten him—much like his heterosexuality. 'You've no idea how long I've wanted to do that.'

Sherlock cups his jaw with callused fingers. 'I've wanted to kiss you since you since Angelo's.'

'The choking incident?'

Sherlock nods and John laughs, a giggle that erupts from deep in his belly. Because how fucking absurd.

'Are you getting off on me or my proficiency for saving lives?'

'You,' Sherlock replies, interrupting himself to press another wet kiss to John's mouth. 'And the things you do.'

'Crazy berk.'

John nudges him aside and fetches the handwritten song. 'This is—the most beautiful thing anyone's ever done for me. I would have said as much earlier, but I sort of took a wrong turn and—'

'Kissed me?' Sherlock's face illumines in a slow spreading smile, all smoldering stardust and crinkles around his eyes. John marvels at it. 'I'm not sorry in the least.'

'Yeah? Neither am I.'

Perhaps they should celebrate this new development with languid caresses and tangled limbs and tender declarations of affection like ordinary people, but nothing is ever ordinary with them.

Instead they slip from John's dormitory and dash into London's watercolour blur, chasing the usual tide of danger and exhilaration. Now, the solid war drums of lust have joined the amalgam, calling them to share kisses in deserted alleys and across the candlelit corner table of Angelo's restaurant.

And nothing, nothing has ever felt so right.

**xxvii.**

Sherlock's hand clenches around John's upper arm like a vice as he drags him through the crush of people.

'Slow down , you daft git. I'm losing circulation.' John wriggles under Sherlock's grip, wrenching his arm free and rubbing furiously at the ring of sore flesh.

'I want us to get good seats,' Sherlock barks back, brushing past a trio of laughing students. 'And by good seats I mean seats a sufficient distant from anyone else.'

John bites back a smile and follows Sherlock into the velvety murk of the auditorium. He's never been to the Royal Observatory, nor to a planetarium show, so he is blazing with anticipation. He looks around. The room is perfectly round and a domed ceiling stretches over their heads in a concave movie screen.

'This way,' says Sherlock, striding toward two vacant seats in the last row. He removes his coat and scarf, revealing a fitted white button down and grey trousers.

'Sit,' he says and John does, close enough that their shoulders brush with every inhale. 'In a few minutes we're going to fly to the heart of the sun. Excited?'

'You're a filthy exhibitionist,' John says, but there isn't a touch of venom in his tone. 'Course I'm bloody excited.'

'Good,' Sherlock replies. 'So am I.'

Within minutes everyone has taken their seats and the lights dim, throwing them all into perfect darkness. Someone shrieks in mock alarm, making Sherlock stiffen with irritation, then the ceiling flickers to life and John feels as if he has just been catapulted into the heart of a galaxy. It's a sensation created by state of the art projection technology and superb animation, but he has already forgotten reality. He's hurling through a galactic ashtray at the speed of light while stars rush past in inconsequential streaks and nebulae ripple in sparkling shades of mauve and gold.

'Oh,' he breathes, just loud enough for Sherlock's ears.

'Enjoying yourself?'

'Immensely.'

Sherlock gives an almost imperceptible sigh of relief.

**xxviii.**

They've been traversing the cosmos for exactly thirty-four minutes when John glances over at Sherlock and they meet eyes, solemn and unblinking as asteroids tumble overhead. Sherlock scrutinizes him for a minute, then swallows, looking oddly stricken.

'What is it?' asks John.

'Constellations…' Sherlock mutters. 'They're the universe's frail attempt at recreating the perfection of your freckles.'

Well.

This is the indelible Sherlock Holmes, a person who loathes romance with evangelical zeal, who shudders at the barest hint of sentiment, who cannot stomach the mawkishness of love. Yet he has just given John the most passionately romantic compliment he's ever received.

It's astonishing to the extreme.

The gravity of what he's just said seems to hit Sherlock and he draws back, folding his arms over his chest in a fragile stab at indifference. The swell of affection that fills John's chest in that moment is nothing short of obscene.

'Sherlock.'

Sherlock turns his dark head with obvious reluctance. 'Yes?'

John grabs him by the shoulders and snogs the breath out of him.

**xxix.**

'Just promise me you'll never leave me out things again.'

'John—'

'No, Sherlock, you must promise. Give me your word.'

'You have to understand—there may come a time when death is the best outcome.'

'No, not for you. Never.'

'I have the right to make my own decisions.'

'So long as you promise not to make them from a place of such unhappiness. That's when all the trouble begins.'

'And how can I promise that?'

'Just remember that if the black dogs come after you and make you feel like you're nothing, I will be here, and I will gladly remind you of just how much you're worth.'

'I'm not a fragile pansy, John.'

'You're human.'

'So?'

'Humans need reassurance. It's good for the psyche.'

'What if I don't want it?'

'That's the fun part. I don't care.'

'You're a menace, John Watson.'

'You wouldn't have it any other way.'

'That's halfway accurate, I suppose. Just hurry up and finish your scone. We have work to do. This is no time for psychotherapy.'

'Yes, who needs emotional perspicacity when there's a four percent chance we might spot a bloated corpse in the Thames this afternoon? Cheers.'

'Three point seven percent.'

'Oh, shut up.'

**xvx.**

Sometimes John wakes up swimming in his bed, drowning in a tangle of twisted bed sheets. The shriek of his nightmares echoes beneath the calciferous sphere of his skull like so many sirens pulling him into their depths.

A long time ago, he would have lain awake for hours after, blinking back tears and biting his lip so hard it bled.

These days, he pulls a creased napkin from beneath his pillow and reads the words jotted across it.

Sherlock gave it to him a few weeks after his twentieth birthday. John had been feverish and woozy with the flu that afternoon and Sherlock had been tired of him sneezing on everything in sight, so he'd thrust a hand in his pocket and withdrawn a crumpled Starbucks napkin.

'Blow,' he had instructed, handing the napkin over and stoically ignoring John's cheeky look.

'My, you are bossy.'

'Shut up and blow your nose, John. You are ejecting mucus all over my mould cultures.'

'God forbid.' But John did as he was told.

Days later, he had emptied his pockets in an effort to find a missing oyster card, and found the napkin stuck to a piece of unchewed gum. He'd been about to toss it in the rubbish when he spotted his name written on a corner of the napkin in spiky black script. Curiosity beat squeamishness by a mile, so he unfolded it.

_Magnetism__: the unseen attraction between opposites that pulls and binds, creating a solidarity of one, _it read. _A scientific anomaly… As are we. _Here there were a few hair-raising equations. John skimmed over them. _While I am bitter intellect and shadow, he is warmth and light and dazzling humanity. Like magnets, we are helplessly attracted; perfectly balanced. _

Sherlock had written some sort of scientific musings about love, it seemed. His love.

For John.

John stood perfectly still, reading and rereading the words until his head ached. He was sure Sherlock had given him the napkin accidentally, that he'd never intended for anyone else to read it.

But, _God_ it was beautiful. The most fucking lovely thing. So inadvertently heartfelt it damn near took his breath away.

Getting rid of the napkin had been wholly out of the question after that. John tucked it beneath his mattress for later use.

He has since discovered that there isn't a better remedy for nightmares than these words, especially the last lines, which are his favourite.

_bx + 21y (m – f/t) – 14x – [(16y x 13b)] + 18 = _

_For the first time, I cannot fathom any real explanation for this [feral, enduring, riveting] connection. I believe it may take my entire life to understand. But if I'm to spend a lifetime trying to comprehend such a mystifying bond, I would like to spend it with him. If he'll permit me. _

Of course. Absolutely. Yes.

_We can spend our lives unraveling this bewildering phenomenon._

And solving crimes and screaming at each other and eating take-away pad thai and kissing and cavorting with danger and saving lives and blowing things up and running through London and drinking coffee so black it makes their teeth vibrate and fighting and falling and growing old and orbiting each other like earth and moon.

_Together._

God, yes.

_Conclusion: Human love is despicably perplexing. _

_*I regret nothing._

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_(A/N): Well there you have it! Part three is complete. Thank you so much for the reviews and support and I hope you enjoyed this little story, even if it was executed anything but flawlessly. _

_Cheers._


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